


Day 30: Eggs

by Aichi



Series: Kinktober 2020 [30]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Cervical Penetration, Eggs, Other, Oviposition, Tentacles, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:28:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28359336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aichi/pseuds/Aichi
Summary: You asked for it. Merry Christmas, fandom. (PLEASE READ NOTES FOR ADDITIONAL WARNINGS.)
Relationships: Harmonics Messiah/Sendou Aichi
Series: Kinktober 2020 [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951588
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	Day 30: Eggs

**Author's Note:**

> You bastards have no one to blame but yourselves for memeing about Aichi Eggs so much. You did this. You did.
> 
> We've passed the point where this isn't even sexy anymore, it's just Weird Shit, and when I'm finished I will never have to write Vanguard NSFW again because it's over, I've done literally every fucking thing possible.
> 
> EXTRA WARNING PLEASE READ: If you're trans and dysphoric about penetration and/or pregnancy (even though this is Just Eggs) maybe give this one a miss. It's written very vaguely and without any real Explicit Terminology because that is my own personal hangup oh my god I didn't even wanna write "cervix" in the tags, it's not said outright anywhere in the fic, I promise, but still, take care okay.
> 
> Actually I'm worried the whole thing is just wildly unclear to read because of this but oh well, you get what you get.

_Aichi Sendou_.

The voice is a hollow peal in the darkness, reverberating as though it comes from everywhere at once.

Aichi sits up sharply, or tries to — reaching out a hand to prop himself up on his bed, he finds only empty space instead, and lets out a yelp as his body tumbles in midair. The quiet shadows of his dorm room and everything in it are gone, replaced by a yawning void that stretches endlessly in every direction, dotted with pinpricks of light like a blanket filled with tiny holes. Aichi’s body hangs in the darkness as if he were treading inky-black water, neither falling nor suffocating nor freezing, despite the fact that his room isn’t the only thing that’s vanished.

He’s naked, he realizes slowly, but somehow it doesn’t seem all that important in the grand scheme of things.

Regardless, he’s given very little time to dwell on the sudden change of both scenery and dress, because the space in front of him shimmers like oil on water, and then suddenly, it’s occupied. The being doesn’t feel like it _appears_ so much as it simply allows him to perceive it, eclipsing his vision with the enormous, arching chrome curves of its body; humanoid, _almost_ , but in an ethereal, angelic way, like every thought and emotion and colour in every world coalesced into one all-encompassing existence. A vast river of glistening strands flows down its back, an approximation of human hair, and on each of its massive shoulders it carries an orb, each one still and silent and yet roaring with the noise and movement of billions and billions of lives.

“Harmonics Messiah,” Aichi breathes.

The shining, emotionless face between the twin images of Earth and Cray nods, a simple tilt up and down, and yet the weight of it hits Aichi like a truck.

“Is this a dream?” he asks, slowly.

_It is, and it is not_. _This place is imaginary. Our words are real_. The words in question have no sound, sliding straight into Aichi’s mind as if they were his own thoughts. _You are safe. There is no need to fear_.

“I-it’s okay!” he says. “I know. I trust you.” He does. The familiar image of Messiah practically radiates serenity, and yet urgency prickles under his skin. “Is something bad happening on Cray? Do you need help? I can—”

_Nothing. Do not worry._ Every word Messiah speaks — thinks? — is slow and clear, enunciated like they’re not used to the shape of it in their unmoving mouth. _We have come to ask something of you. A ‘favor’. We are unaccustomed to speaking in such plain terms as ‘words’_ , they add, as if they’ve read his mind, _but we felt it might be more comfortable for you to communicate in such a way_.

“Um, thank you,” Aichi says, redirecting his thoughts away from speculation on what ‘other methods of communication’ might entail. “What kind of favor?”

_We have taken responsibility for overseeing the rebirth of ‘Link Joker’_ , Messiah explains. _You are familiar with their previous incarnation_ — Aichi opens his mouth to speak, heart abruptly threatening to leap from his throat, but something insistent in Messiah’s thought-speech stills him — _but these children are new and innocent, born under our guidance and free from the Void’s influence. Cray does not know of their existence, nor can it; it would not be kind to them, and they are still infantile, vulnerable. We come to you in confidence, as one who once fought alongside us, to ask that you do not judge them by their predecessors, as so many others would._

The slow rhythm of Messiah’s voice is a salve to Aichi’s nerves, singed at the mere mention of Link Joker. They explain, through a combination of words and tentatively presented images that float by Aichi’s mind at arm’s length, how they chose to bestow new life on the fallen Star-vaders — those whose bodies sank into the soil of Cray, giving them a chance to live a better, fuller existence unshackled by the chains of war. They explain how their new children live secluded, hidden lives, how they are still only just beginning to discover their own emotions and individuality. They explain how they fear for their children’s safety, and the prejudice they would no doubt face if they were to reveal themselves to Cray at large.

And they explain how they want Aichi to help them.

_We have collected the matter of many more fallen Star-vaders_ , they say. _Coalesced it into a form ready to be born — what you would call an ‘egg’. We now need only to incubate them. We had hoped you might allow us to utilize your body for this purpose_ _— to carry our children inside you until they are ready to hatch._

“My, umm,” Aichi starts, a maelstrom of thoughts whipping coherent words away before they can reach his lips. “My body. My body is… maybe not what you’re expecting. I don’t know if I’ll be able to help with your… thing.” He really doesn’t know what else to say. Heat creeps up into his cheeks, and the tiny spark of light that ignited inside him while listening to Messiah’s story wards off any more thoughtful, logical responses such as _what do you mean INCUBATE?_ and _EGGS?_ and _INSIDE ME???_

_We are aware. It is not an obstacle; in fact, it is ideal_.

Of course Messiah would know about his transition, Aichi realizes, in a way that somehow stokes his embarrassment far more than the suddenly-far-more-real-than-it-has-any-right-to-be idea of _incubating eggs inside his body_. They were _one_ once, after all, even if only for a few moments.

They’re also omnipotent, probably. That would certainly help.

“R-right. So, umm, what would you need me to _do_ , exactly?” he asks, because he can’t very well _refuse_ , not when Messiah and their children need his help. Not when they’re already struggling so much, and there are so very few of them, and they want only to find peace and be themselves. _At least not without hearing them out_ , he reasons, towards the part of his brain still shrieking _EGGS?!?!_

_You would need to do very little. The process would not be overly painful, but neither would it be entirely comfortable. We would insert our eggs into you here and now, and you would wake up in your world carrying them. Their incubation would be short; a matter of a few Earth weeks until they are ready for laying, and they would hatch immediately thereafter._

“Hatch?” Aichi’s throat is tight, and he has to force the word out.

_We would then call the children back to Cray_ , Messiah says, helpfully. _There would be no need for you to further care for them_.

“Uhm. That’s good. I think.”

_You were the first human to prove the strength and kindness of your heart to us, Aichi Sendou. We ask you now: will you help us secure a future for our children?_

“I—” Aichi scratches his neck, willing his skin to stop burning so much. _Eggs_ , his brain fervently reminds him. _INSIDE YOU_. “It’s a lot to take in.”

_It will be, but your body will be more than capable of enduring it. We will offer you our protection_.

“That’s— that’s not quite what I meant.”

_It was a joke_ , Messiah says, in the same flat, unaffected tone. _Please, take your time._

A giggle bubbles up through Aichi’s chest, and he can’t help the smile that breaks across his undoubtedly bright-red face. “No, it’s okay,” he says, sincerely. “I’ll help you.” He can’t exactly turn down a person— a _deity_ in need, even if it means… whatever exactly he’s just signed up for. Eggs. He didn’t even think to ask what they’d be like, how many, how big exactly, how they’re going to get inside him although _maybe that part should be obvious oh god he really didn’t think this all the way through oh god he’s still smiling_ _oh GOD—_

Aichi’s thoughts are still freewheeling as Messiah lifts their arms, their limbs curling around him in a cradle of silver and metal. Their hair flutters as if blown by an ethereal wind, and the darkness of the void streaks away into the distance, crowded out by a brilliant shroud of rainbows. Aichi scrunches his eyes, shielding them with an arm, and so it takes him a moment to see the tendrils that snake forth; they come from everywhere and nowhere, the white spots in his vision where he hasn’t quite adjusted to Messiah’s light, and there are dozens and dozens of them, glinting with a vibrant metallic sheen as they reach eagerly for him like the embrace of a long-lost lover.

_Please_ , Messiah urges, probably because they can hear Aichi’s heart jackhammering in his chest, _do not be afraid_. _We must hold you steady to ensure you do not harm the eggs during the insertion process._

_Afraid_ isn’t the right word for it, Aichi thinks, as two of the tendrils meet his ankles, blunt heads bumping blindly against his skin as if searching for the right place to take hold of him. Any emotion as primal as _fear_ is muted by a stomach bloated with butterflies and a brain running an endless loop of _oh god EGGS, god, eggs, LITERAL GOD EGGS_ — but equally by old, fond memories of the two of them standing together against the thundering darkness of Brandt. Messiah’s form shines with all the radiance of the universe itself, and their very presence would command a deep-seated, awe-filled respect even if he hadn’t been touched by it personally.

The tendrils have the strength and texture of cool steel, but they’re gentle as they secure him; one twines around each limb and another coils loosely about his hips, guiding the others as they take his weight and maneuver him so he’s suspended face-up, legs bent at the knee and folded up towards his head. His arms are pulled together behind him, although not uncomfortably, and he gets the feeling it’s more to keep them out of the way than anything else. The whole thing feels so much like a surreal daydream that Aichi almost forgets to be embarrassed — _almost_ , which still isn’t enough to stop his face glowing like he’s lying under a midday sun. He squirms a little against the tendrils restraining his hands; he needs _something_ to cover his face with, but his bonds might as well be actually made out of solid steel for all the good it does.

He may or may not have had daydreams involving startlingly similar positions before, which raises the question of whether or not Messiah plucked it from his subconscious somehow — but the prod of a chilly tentacle between his legs efficiently stamps out articulate thought from any section of his brain besides the part still helpfully contributing _eggs, EGGS, oh my god, this is fine, this is totally fine, this isn’t weird AT ALL_.

_Be still,_ Messiah reminds him, the soft reverberations of their voice filling the space around him like cotton wool. They must sing the universe’s best lullabies for their children in that voice, Aichi thinks, an observation which is entirely the opposite of calming the moment he remembers _he’s about to help create those children_.

_Does this make him a parent?_

He doesn’t know what to do with that idea.

The tentacle between his legs, meanwhile, knows exactly what it wants, and it shares none of the explorative trepidation of its fellows as it presses against his— _front hole_ always sounds so silly, but he’s not up for calling it by its clinical name. As the tendril slips between his folds, Aichi realizes it’s also slimmer and more tapered than the others; it’s made for a particular purpose, one which forces a nervous, shuddering breath from his pursed lips. _Ovipositor_ isn’t a word he’s ever expected to need in any context, let alone _this_.

_The process will not take long_ , Messiah assures him, and it’s then, his ears burning, that Aichi realizes that he’s _wet_.

Hanging in the glittering void of their shared mindscape, it’s easy enough to reason that the body he’s piloting isn’t real. It isn’t truly _him_ but rather an image born of his and Messiah’s collective consciousness — but divorcing its responses from his own is another matter entirely. The cyclical mantra of _this is FINE, no, what are you DOING, look what happened the last time you let Link Joker inside you, but this is DIFFERENT, this is Messiah we’re talking about_ is undeniably real, his own addled thoughts melting his brain into a useless slurry, but the arousal pumping up from inside him is harder to pin down. _It’s a natural reaction_ , he tells himself, even though _none_ of this is natural, least of all that kind of reaction.

There’s no pain as the tip of the ovipositor enters him, just a sudden bite of cold that makes him clench around it and sends a half-muffled yelp whistling through his teeth. Maybe it _is_ thicker than he’d thought, but his body acclimatizes to it naturally with little more than a tingle, and what’s far more crushing is the invisible warping of the laws of the world, tugging at his sense of normalcy as they twist and fold at Messiah’s silent command. His torso is wreathed in light, a formless glow shimmering down his limbs towards his extremities and giving him the distinct sensation of being cradled, coddled as the tentacle stretches him, plies him open so it can penetrate him quicker and deeper than should be comfortably possible. Back arching, a sudden and ferocious _need_ streaks up Aichi’s spine, and he cries out again, pushing back his hips to meet it.

_Please do your best to remain still_ , Messiah reminds him.

As they speak, the ovipositor’s tip unfolds inside him like a flower, and Aichi’s cry turns into a strangled, ugly gasp as its sleek petals press against his inner walls. _How is he supposed to REMAIN STILL_ _when something is TICKLING his insides_ , he wants to howl, but he bites the words off with a sob and a shake as the Something emerging from the flower writhes and pushes even further forward, teasing at the top of his passage, at the tight, puckered hole that leads to—

_O-oh. Oh GOD_.

The pain isn’t unbearable — it’s not even _bad_ , more like the prick of a thick needle than anything else — but it comes from such a deep, violated place inside him that Aichi screams, head falling back as the sound drags claws up the inner walls of his throat. Waves of light streak down his body; it’s Messiah’s holy protection, as promised, a soft warmth sinking into his skin that does little — but not _nothing_ — to dull the feeling of being _invaded_. The small tendril doesn’t stop moving until it’s wormed its way into the deepest, most impossible hollow inside him, and the surviving rational part of his brain reminds him that this is _definitely_ not normal or right, that _nothing_ is supposed to go in _there_ , it’s only supposed to open during— 

_They are coming_ , Messiah tells him softly. _Are you prepared, Aichi Sendou?_

Aichi’s affirmation dies in his breathless, aching throat, but apparently Messiah understands nonetheless, because _come_ they do. 

Orgasm rolls through him in the same moment the first egg pops through his entrance. There’s no buildup, no anticipation, just a moment of dull, grotesque stretching, and then suddenly it’s _there_ , accompanied by a horrible wet noise of introduction. The spherical weight hanging inside him feels like maybe the size of his own small fist, which _has_ to be his imagination exaggerating things, because there’s no _way_ , but his body doesn’t care to ponder logistics of it one bit; one abrupt half-instant later he’s curling his toes and whimpering and shivering, sparks dancing on his skin and tentacles tensing around his wrists and ankles as he comes undone. White static fills his vision for a long, tender moment, and it’s somehow darker than the void around them.

Messiah doesn’t speak, but there’s an image, an ideal that becomes clear in the light haloing Aichi’s body: _relax_. The appeal works its way into his mind as insistently as the tentacle did into his— uh, _cavity_ , but it still takes his body time to obey. Spasms and shudders subside gradually, muscles clenching around the orb in his belly like an oyster around a pearl, and all the while Messiah sends him the same message, the tentacle holding his hips shifting and coiling gently in a soothing rhythm that feels almost like petting.

Once the aftershocks of orgasm subside, it becomes _far_ easier to feel the next egg entering him.

This time, Aichi can sense it coming; the tendril inside him twitches, petals fluttering in anticipation, and the shaft distends as the orb slides down it from wherever Messiah had been keeping them. Its length flexing like a snake struggling to swallow, the tendril presses its load against his entrance, and at first it seems there’s simply no way it’s going to fit — but the last one had, and so this one does too, with less discomfort this time, but equally with less… _other_ reactions. Aichi feels looser, lighter, and suddenly a lot more exhausted as the egg works its way past that second barrier inside him and settles comfortably next to the first.

_Satisfaction_ floats at the surface of his mind, both the word and something resembling the emotion, a tender blend of both his and Messiah’s wills. He’s still in the afterglow of orgasm as the third and fourth eggs pass into him, nestling just as snugly into place as their fellows.

The fifth and beyond present more of a problem. The tendril deposits number five easily enough, but the strain is starting to show; craning his stiff neck, Aichi can see the shape of his distended belly rising over the arch of his chest, five distinct, spherical bulges clustered under the skin. It looks, absurdly, like he’s been stuffed with billiard balls, and feels like he’s eaten a five-course meal, only with a lot less table service and a lot more _oh god I am FULL OF EGGS_.

“H-how many?” he wheezes.

Number six enters him before Messiah responds, jostling for space before finally settling down next to its siblings.

_A dozen. We are halfway there, and we are very grateful to you, Aichi Sendou_.

“A doz—” Aichi squeaks, and catches himself just as the tentacles binding him do, stopping him before he can bolt upright. “Sorry. A dozen. Oh my _god_.”

_We do not think of ourselves as such. We are merely a guardian._ A pause. _Another joke. We understand those often have a soothing effect on humans suffering from anxieties. Do not worry, your body will contain them. We will not allow harm to come to you_.

Trust isn’t a replacement for confidence, but Aichi clings to it nonetheless as numbers seven and eight squeeze into him. Even the slightest twitch now comes with both the sound and the bizarre, alien feeling of _things_ shifting inside him, metal rolling against metal when he moves as if he were some kind of machine. Moving itself becomes increasingly difficult, and would be even without the other tentacles restraining him; his skin is stretched beyond its realistic limits containing the growing colony — _nine_ now — of eggs buried beneath it, and despite Messiah’s insistence otherwise, he can’t ignore the oppressive feeling that he might burst like a ripened fruit if he so much as flexes wrong.

Number ten feels smaller than the rest — they’re all subtly different, he’s come to realize, the longer he has them inside — and he feels sorry for it as it struggles to find space in his still-stretching abdomen. A quiet yearning twinges in his chest, and he longs to reach out to it, to place a hand on his misshapen stomach and feel the pulse of its tiny life within.

Eleven and twelve are almost an afterthought. The constant pressure of taut skin and the heaving fullness in his belly are already startlingly familiar, and the light playing over Aichi’s flushed skin sponges up the pain before it can even reach his nerves. As the last egg pops free from the ovipositor’s tip, the shaft shivers as if in the throes of its own orgasm, sending soft vibrations up and down Aichi’s spine that might have threatened to lull him to sleep if he weren’t so occupied with being _full_.

After lingering from a moment, the petals fold back against the shaft and it recedes, tugging at Aichi’s insides as it goes, and his whole abdomen seems to shift with it, rearranging itself with a series of bizarre, muffled clinking sounds as the faux-metallic eggs settle comfortably into his— his— oh, he _still_ can’t say it.

They’re inside him, and that’s what matters. Twelve tiny, vulnerable children, in his care for the next— how long had Messiah said they would take to incubate? A few weeks? 

Oh god, he’s going to have to carry these for _weeks_. 

The ovipositor slithers free of him with an ugly wet slurp, and he almost doesn’t notice the tentacles unwinding themselves from his limbs, receding with it into the blinding distance of the rainbow void. Sparks flake away and drift from his skin like ashes as his body hangs in the emptiness, slowly but surely righting itself, and it takes what feels like several achingly slow minutes before he raises the courage to move an arm, brushing tentative fingers over his stomach as if the skin were a thin sheet of paper that could tear at the slightest pressure.

All twelve eggs are clearly visible, their bulging shapes under his skin leaving it red and uneven like the surface of a raspberry. Number ten is nestled just beneath his stomach, nudging against his organs as if it were already eager to be born.

_It is done_ , Messiah says, simply.

“It… it is,” Aichi agrees. “Um.” He doesn’t know where to go from there. It had been so easy to go with the flow while it was all— _happening_ , but now that he’s unbound, he feels a little—

_We thank you_ , Messiah continues. _We have no doubt these children will grow strong and healthy under your protection_.

“Do I… do I have to… do anything?” Aichi asks, without looking up. He can’t take his eyes off his stomach and the spheres clustered inside it, can’t stop stroking it just to confirm that it’s really there, sliding a palm under it to cup the weight and reminding himself to breathe, breathe, even though it feels more than a little tight and shallow to do so because he’s _full of eggs, oh my god_. “How will I know when they’re ready?”

Maybe he shouldn’t have jumped into this with exactly zero plan — but he couldn’t have exactly abandoned Messiah when they needed his help, either.

_You will know. They will tell you._

Aichi lets his hand come to rest above number ten, and traces a slow circle around it with his finger. His stomach is bigger than it has any right to be, bigger than he’s _ever_ seen on a— _a regular childbearing person_ , and the shapes under the skin are definitely nonhuman.

Messiah’s voice sounds oddly distant as they continue, as if it were funneled down a long tin pipe. _You need not do anything special. We do ask that you avoid strenuous actions, and that you take correct care of your body as you usually would. We will watch over and ensure both your and their safety otherwise_.

“Th-thank you,” Aichi breathes, the words petering into a disjointed sigh as a wave of exhaustion breaks over him. “I think I—”

_Rest_ , they say. _Please, Aichi Sendou. Take care of our children_.

White light envelops them and him, and Aichi blinks, rubbing his stinging eyes.

Dawn streams through his half-open curtains, curling the cover of a textbook on his desk. His blankets are tangled around his legs, and his pajama top has ridden most of the way up his chest during the night, exposing his stomach to the drowsy warmth of the morning sun. He’s almost afraid to look at it, but the weight bearing on his spine is undeniable.

It looks just as it did in his dreamscape. Reddened stretch marks curve away towards hips that he can no longer even see beyond a bloated, irregular arch of flesh, his skin stretched over a dozen perfectly-formed orbs.

_A few weeks_. He’s going to need one _heck_ of an excuse for missing class for that long, but a perfect attendance record is a small price to pay for the future of an entire clan and its innocent children.

“I will,” he answers, even though he’s not sure Messiah can hear him any more. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> You all did this to yourselves and I will apologize for nothing.
> 
> "But no sane person would jump into something like this so fast-" This is the same genius who swallowed the Void Seed without even thinking about it, all right. He's doing his best. He's just fated to have Link Joker inside him.
> 
> One more fill and then I'm finally free. It's been a long kinktobervembercember.


End file.
